Where the Wind Blows
by Doublebee
Summary: "The wind is his home. He is the wind." JohnDave sadstuck.


"Oh my god! The swings are back up! Hurry, Dave!"

You are Dave Strider and right now, your boyfriend looks positively adorable as he sprints full-throttle towards the pair of swings a few feet before you both, the plastic seats swaying gently in the breeze that has begun to pick up.

John always loved the swings. Something about "being free" and "flying" that got him all riled up. It's one of the cutest quirks he's got, so you don't mind. Besides, a well-aged teen, cackling like a toddler as he plops his fine ass down on that plastic seat? Irony at it's finest.

Irony is still your thing, by the way. Even when you're sixteen.

The sky is a sort of lilac-gold at the moment, you notice, the twilight hour just settling in. This is your favorite time of day, here in good ol' Washington. The clouds that linger in the sky here seem to make the sights even more breathtaking. So unlike back home, in Texas. You enjoy it here much more. The fact it is also the state that homes your boyfriend just makes it Heaven.

Nonetheless, after a moment of staring at the gorgeous setting sun, you find yourself coming up to the back of the swing John has perched himself on. He's got that stupid grin on his face that looks too fucking precious and you can't help but kiss his cheek, your hands around his that hold at silver chains.

The light of the sunset on his red cheeks makes him look simply amazing.

You tell him this.

"Abso-fucking-lutely stunning," you explain to the black-haired boy, kissing his other cheek, "that's how you look. Perfect and amazing; the whole damn shebang, baby. You make the fucking sun seem too dull, compared to my god, all sitting here before me and shit."

"Stop!" He whines, tossing his head back with an embarrassed laugh and flushed cheeks. "You're going to make me blush and stuff, Dave!"

"Too late," you murmur with the smallest of smirks, stepping back from him in order to pull the swing back, before sending it forward in a careful glide. Your hands let go of his, in order to push him properly from his back. The wind almost seems to kick up a bit when you sent him forward the first time, and it makes you snort.

"Don't go using the Windy Thing on me, babe," you playfully warn John, who hardly seems like he'd do such a thing. He's got his eyes closed in such innocent bliss as the wind of moment kisses his face, runs through his wild raven hair and ruffles through his clothes. Chills him to the bone. Brings life into him, really.

John hums something, before he actually speaks, "Can't use the Windy Thing; not here."

Of course he can't use the Windy Thing. You had been joking in the first place. After the game, not of your powers remained. Except for John's amazement with the way the wind works, and yourself with a perfect rhythm and sense of time.

"The wind doesn't need me to tell it what to do anymore."

Quirking an eyebrow over the top of your shades at the other, you continue to push John, making sure not to be too rough with his back as you do so. Can't have him getting hurt now.

"I mean, why use it when the wind is already _there_?"

And he tips himself back a bit, to send himself higher with the assistance of your pushes. You can't help but notice that perfect smile gracing his lips as his cheeks redden from the chill of the wind petting them. His hands look limp around the chains on either side of the swing, and you know why.

The wind is his home. He _is_ the wind.

And you'd be lying if you didn't say he looked absolutely fucking beauitful right now, with his short black hair whipping around his pale, gorgeous face.

"It's just waiting to have someone pay attention to it."

He sighs out of joy, you hear that high-pitched "aah" in his throat when he does so. The chilly breeze whips through your hair, cutting through the thin fabric of your shirt. But it doesn't bother you. Because it feels like John. Like his pianst fingers, when they run up your sides as you lock lips, or when they curl in your flat blonde hair as you two lounge about doing nothing.

"That's why it gets all in your face and hugs you, even though it's so cold."

His words don't go unnoticed, but you can't think of anything really worthy to reply with. Instead, you push him a few more times, taking in a deep, clean breath as the wind tickles your ears and the back of your neck. You imagine it's John instead, cold arms wrapping around you, surrounding you in their grasp.

And then, you hear the "thud" of John jumping off the swing, landing on his feet in a sort-of squat in front of it. A nice landing.

Not the outcome the Heir had been looking for.

You watch him look disappointed. You watch him dig the tip of his shoe into the ground and kick up the excess dirt in dull anger. You watch him carefully sort away the hurt that's threatening to make his eyes well up in tears when he looks at you.

You know it's because the wind didn't carry him, like in the Game.

Slowly, you push past the swing, stepping over to John with rahter-quick steps to pull him into a hug. One hand cradles his head into your shoulder, the other goes around his shoulders tightly. You hold him so tight you're half sure he's suffocating against you.

But when John lets out the meekest of cries into your shoulder, fists his hands up in the fabric of your shirt, you sigh, and kiss his forehead with gentle lips. Comforting isn't really your thing, but John always says you do a good job, anyway.

"C'mon babe." You frown. "Don't cry."

He mumbles something into your shirt, but you fail to hear it over the high-pitched screams of the wind that whips past your ears, that flicks your hair this way and that, that licks at your skin with bitter cold in its wake. Your shirt it whipping around to add to the mix and it makes you shiver in jerky spasms, but you don't let go of John, only hold him closer to you.

That's when John peers up at you, before turning to look over his shoulder into the setting sun you've been staring at almost the entire time you've been holding him. He sniffles (it's mostly because of the cold now) as he looks with curious cerulean eyes, before he mumbles something you barely manage to catch before his words are taken away by the cold wind and into oblivion.

_"Even the wind misses the Game._"


End file.
